


Overcome

by Maiden_of_the_Moon



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Baby Names, Character's Name Spelled as Viktor, Chihokogate, Fluff and Humor, Ice Daddies, M/M, Surrogacy, Yuri on Stage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-02
Updated: 2017-05-02
Packaged: 2018-10-26 21:08:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10794792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maiden_of_the_Moon/pseuds/Maiden_of_the_Moon
Summary: “Chihoko,” Viktor decides.Yuuri frowns, wondering if the water that he had sipped during lunch had been of the Russian variety, and whether he’d rather have an alcoholic husband or a crazy one. A question for the ages, surely. It is not the question that he asks.The question that he asks is: “What.”





	Overcome

**Disclaimer:** Yuri!!! on Nope 

**Author’s Note:** #Chihokogate is everything. 

**Warnings:** Fluff. Based on the Yuri!!! On Stage event and [this lovely analysis](https://shysweetthing.tumblr.com/post/160159076825/chihokogate-is-overwhelmingly-romantic-fight-me). No beta, only edited once.

**XXX**

**Overcome**

**XXX**

“Chihoko.”

When Yuuri glances over the top of his magazine, it is to find his husband has completely forgone his own reading. Spindle-fingered hands are folded atop the cover of some easy-reader Japanese novel; his blue eyes are bright with decision, sober as they stare into Yuuri’s own.

Well. _Probably_ sober, anyway. _Presumably_ sober. For God’s sake, it’s only 2 in the afternoon, so _hopefully_ sober. Yuuri frowns, wondering if the water that Viktor had sipped during lunch had been of the Russian variety, and whether he’d rather have an alcoholic husband or a crazy one. A question for the ages, surely. It is not the question that he asks. 

The question that he asks is: “What.” 

“Chihoko,” Viktor repeats, as bubbly as his husband is flat. The Living Legend is speaking in that way he does when he has fully committed himself to something, like his marriage vows or his free skate’s choreography or his order on Chinese Takeout Night. “It’s the _perfect_ name.” 

Yuuri abandons all hope about finishing this article on paper craft. 

“You’re right, Vitya,” he intones, more focused than is entirely necessary on dog-earing his page, “except for the part about it being perfect or a name.” 

“It _is_ a name!” Viktor protests, toes burrowing beneath Yuuri’s thigh in emphasis. His bottom lip practically casts a shadow over the couch when he pouts. “It’s not a _common_ name, perhaps, but it _is_ a name. It _sounds_ like a name.”

“Does it.”

“You _know_ it does! Besides, _anything_ can be a name if you try hard enough. Look at the Americans!” Viktor points out, as if this argument somehow _helps_ his case. It does not. It very much does not. 

Yuuri physically recoils, and not only because Viktor’s feet are alarmingly cold for a day in late May. 

“No,” he says, shaking his head for good measure. There is no room for misinterpretation, this time. “Definitely not. And since you brought it up, we’re not using Apple or Moonunit, either.” 

“But—”

“ _No._ ”

**X**

“Hey.”

“I said no.”

“You know what she looks like, Yuuri?”

“ _No_ , Viktor.”

“You don’t? Then I’ll tell you!”

“Don’t say it.” 

“Don’t say what?”

“Yuuko-chan, please, don’t encourage h—!”

“She looks like a _shachihoko_ ,” Viktor coos, sweet, as he lovingly traces the sonogram’s outlines. The heart of his mouth reflects the affection in his eyes; Yuuri hides his own behind his hand, the smack of his palm meeting his forehead echoing off of the hospital room’s linoleum tiles.

Yuuko blinks. She blinks three full times: Once at Yuuri, once at Viktor, and once at the printout of the life that grows inside of her. 

“He’s… not… wrong?” she assesses, much to Yuuri’s exasperation and Viktor’s obvious glee. The fingers that are not splayed across her swollen belly join Viktor’s in tracing the baby’s contours. “She’s certainly flexible enough. And look! At this angle, it even seems like she’s archin—”

“He wants to name the baby Chihoko,” Yuuri interrupts in a deadpan. The pronouncement is punctuated by a strangled sound from their surrogate; a surge of validation sees him shoot a smirk at a sulking Viktor. Of course Yuuko agrees with him. As a Japanese mother, she would completely understand why ‘Chihoko’ is—

“— _adorable_!” Yuuko shrieks, voice pitched with a delight that Yuuri most definitely should have expected from a woman who named her own daughters after _figure skating moves_. Dammit. “How clever and unique and _adorable!_ ” 

“ _Yuuko-chan._ ” Just as Yuuri deliberately does not notice his husband’s preening, he refuses to admit that he himself is whining. Because he isn’t. He’s only grumbling a little. “Yuuko-chan, you’re _my_ childhood friend! You’re supposed to be on _my_ side!”

“ _I’m_ carrying you and your husband’s _child_. I contest that _you’re_ supposed to be on _mine_ ,” Yuuko counters, her fingers merrily tangled with Viktor’s atop the sonogram. Viktor, in turn, gazes at her with such reverence that one would think he’d just received a personal blessing from the Virgin Mary herself.

Yuuko notices this and smiles. “Am I shining, Viktor?” she teases, guiding his hand off of the print and onto the real thing. 

The Living Legend beams, so wide and blinding that his own eyes squint shut. “Very brightly!” 

“Must be the pregnancy glow,” Yuuri murmurs. Their happiness is infectious, despite his lingering qualms; matching wedding bands glint in July’s gilded sunlight when his hand joins his loved ones’. 

Beneath a wrinkled paper gown, the baby kicks.

**X**

“Why?”

Half-hunched over a shared sink, Viktor glances at the mirror, his reflection openly curious. There are smears of toothpaste dripping from his mouth, foamy as it slops between his fingers. A cock of his head sets the _momiji_ clip in his fringe into a sway. He has a clip for every season, because of course he does. 

“Why _Chihoko_?” Yuuri expounds, answering his husband’s unasked question with another question. His own toothbrush is half-way to his lips, dusk-blue where Viktor’s is magenta. The bathroom’s sallow light casts them both in shades of gold, though the shadows in his furrowed brow are gray. “I keep turning it over in my head, Vitya. I’ve been analyzing it for months. But I just… I give up. I don’t understand why you’re so insistent. That whole incident— #Chihokogate, as Phichit still called it— I mean, it wasn’t our _worst_ moment, I know _that_ , but it wasn’t our _best_. If the goal is to commemorate Momentous Drunken Debauchery, we should be calling her _Sochi_ , for goodness’ sake. Why do you want to name our daughter after a legendary fish sculpture that your wasted mind convinced you was my very limber ex-girlfriend?”

Viktor—shirtless, dribbling, and forever a bathroom hog— pauses in the midst of his meticulous scrubbing, straightening when conversation distracts him from oral hygiene. Long lashes flurry; he twists his lotion-dappled face just enough to consider his husband, his eyes glassy with fondness and his cheeks full of minty spume. He looks like he has rabies. 

“Because,” he garbles, barely comprehensible, “it reminds me of how you meet me where I am.” 

Yuuri doesn’t know what to say to this. 

“Also,” his husband continues, cheerfully drooling, “it reminds me of you nakedly scaling a city landmark, and of watching the sunrise together on top of my favorite ninja castle.” 

Yuuri has a better idea of what to say to this.

“You know you’re the worst, right?”

“Excuse _you_ , I am the _best_. And I have the medals to prove it,” Viktor retorts, as haughty as one is able to be when gargling mouthwash. He spits, grabs a towel, and scrubs everything off of his face except for his mischievous leer. “Though now that you mention it, _Zolotse_ ,” the Living Legend purrs, worn sleep pants catching beneath his heels when he turns against the sink ledge, “ _Sochi_ would make an _excellent_ middle name…” 

A strip of toothpaste falls to the countertop with a _splat_. Yuuri’s mortification is palpable. 

“ _No_.” 

“Too late,” Viktor trills, his cheeks gaining the color that his husband’s lose. “I love it.”

“It’s embarrassing!” 

“It’s perfect.” 

“It’s _not_ happening. There’s no precedent! Neither Japan nor Russia keeps to the tradition of middle names!”

“When have we _ever_ done _anything_ traditionally?” his husband challenges, brow arcing behind his clip. It sets Yuuri fuming, because this is a fair point. But it is not a _good_ point. It is not _the_ point. He puts his foot down, both metaphorically and literally. 

“With God as my witness, Viktor,” Yuuri avows, “we are _not_ naming our daughter Chihoko Sochi Katsuki-Nikiforov.”

**X**

Chihoko Sochi Katsuki-Nikiforov is born on a Sunday in the middle of autumn, pink-faced and heart-mouthed and pudgy. Yuuri cries when she is placed in his arms. Viktor _weeps_. Phichit runs out of storage on his iPhone in his nigh-maniacal attempts to capture every single moment of their and the baby’s first meeting for his Instagram followers, and the Viktuuri hashtag trends again like it hadn’t since Viktor and Yuuri’s wedding. For the first time in living memory, Yuuri and the Nishigoris miss watching the Japan Open, the event so fast forgotten in the wake of everything else that even the triplets seem confused when Minami visits the hospital wearing a spangled costume and a sheen of fresh sweat.

“We probably should have expected this, in retrospect,” Yuuko jokes in the aftermath, her smile weary but genuine. With a proud Takeshi holding her hand, she watches her friends sob over their newborn, Chihoko’s teeny body curled in Yuuri’s embrace and her bitty head and bittier feet cradled by Viktor. “Of course a Katsuki-Nikiforov baby would want out in time to watch a national skating competition.”

“ _Tch_. The little fish is already sleeping, though,” Yurio grumps from a corner, his chin atop his fist and his scowl firmly in place. Another huffs blusters his bangs, kittenish when it squeaks through his teeth; the teen is glaring at the affectionate, gushing mess that had once been his semi-articulate friends, and Yuuko notices him twitching. He does not hide his desire to hold the baby as well as he thinks he does. “Well, whatever. At least she’ll be awake for the _important_ competitions, like the Russian Nationals.”

“I’m sure she’ll be enthralled by your performance,” Yuuko assures her friend, amused and ever-motherly. Yurio scoffs a second time, even as his ears flush. 

“I _guess_ ,” he grunts. “So long as she isn’t cursed with her stupid parents’ awful taste, anyway. I mean, for fuck’s sake. I can’t believe they actually named her _Castle-Carp-Decoration City-Where-Smashed-Pole-Dancing-Shenanigans-Went-Down Katsudon-Nikifor-God’s-Sake-Shut-Up_.” 

Takeshi shoots Yurio a startled look. “… _I_ can’t believe I’m just putting that all together now,” he confesses, visibly perturbed. 

“ _I can’t_ ,” Phichit gushes next, throwing himself onto the floor to get the perfect shot of his favorite #icedaddies in a rosy sunbeam. Chihoko snuffles; he squeals like one of his hamsters. “I just plain _can’t!_ ”

“I… I c-can’t…”

It is an echo at first, almost inaudible. Then it is a declaration, strong and loud despite the lip that it wobbles so unsteadily off of. 

“I can’t,” Yuuri says again, directly at Viktor this time. There are tears quivering on his glasses’ rims, falling in splotches atop a blanket printed with skating booties; his eyes are wide with earnestness, and his voice thick and wet. “I can’t, Vitya, I— I can’t do it. I’m sorry. I can’t keep my word. I lied.” 

“ _Zolotse_ …?” Viktor sniffles, growing slowly but increasingly concerned. Overwhelmed. Bemused, particularly when his husband’s features warp with guilt. “Yuuri, what do you mean?” 

“I m-mean I can’t… do what you asked me to. I can’t ‘overcome Chihoko.’ Not anymore,” Yuuri whimpers, choking on the gasp that he tries and fails to suckle down. The whole of his body shakes, teeth clattering in his jaw when he whispers, “I _can’t_. I told you, Viktor… I told you I could search the whole world and that… nobody would be better than you, but… but now…!” 

The baby girl in his arms nestles closer, her tuft of curls aglow in the reddening sunset. She is so painfully, preciously tiny. She is so painfully, preciously perfect. Yuuri kisses her nose, his forehead warm against Viktor’s shoulder; Viktor kisses Yuuri’s brow, chuckling and breathlessly in love. Between them, Chihoko has a feather-grip upon Viktor’s pinky, but it already feels like a vice-tight squeeze of his heart. 

There is absolutely no contest, Viktor knows, and he has never been happier to lose. He has never been happier, period. 

“I graciously accept defeat.”

**XXX**


End file.
